


sincerity is scary

by zeppelin (transgenicveins)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Communication, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, M/M, season 10, some shameless-typical slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22238863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transgenicveins/pseuds/zeppelin
Summary: He realises with a jolt that Mickey didn’t think he’d come.“Mick,” he says softly. He taps his fingers on the glass. “Mickey.”“Fucking what?” Mickey scowls, but his fingers stretch closer.“Stop waiting for me to leave,” he replies quickly.(Ian and Mickey become a stable couple who communicate.)
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 64
Kudos: 1345





	sincerity is scary

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from the 1975 song.
> 
> canon divergent from 10x03

Mickey doesn’t trust him anymore.

+

Ian doesn’t realise it at first, too caught up in fucking Mickey all the way through their thin jailhouse mattress and the high of Mickey’s attention, all on him.

But eventually, he notices. Mickey looks at him with these sad, lost eyes when he thinks Ian’s not paying attention, and never wants to linger holding him, and makes the same noncommittal hum whenever they talk about the future.

Ian tries to ignore it, but one time he catches just the side of Mickey’s face while he slides into him. Mickey looks so fucking restrained, biting his lip to keep quiet, eyes wide and glassy and absent.

Ian wishes he hadn’t seen.

+

And then – fucking – he tells him to leave and fuck other people.

Ian blinks. “Mick.”

Mickey looks away. That’s another something that hurts.

“I love you,” Ian says, and it’s been like a floodgate, he wants to say it to Mickey all the fucking time, wants to hear it back, “I don’t want to fuck anyone else.”

Mickey glances at him but he just looks worried, _scared_ , and Ian can’t take it. “I love you too,” he says. “But I don’t want you to wait around.”

And that’s what it comes back to, isn’t it, just them waiting and not waiting, staying and leaving, telling the truth and lying through their teeth.

If Ian was still seventeen and lost, he would think Mickey doesn’t want it, but Ian knows him better.

He knows him best.

+

Eventually, he sees Mickey’s chest.

It’s mostly by accident. The aircon is out on their floor for maintenance but he blows Mickey anyway, edging him with a thumb pressed one knuckle inside, a firm grip around the base of his cock.

Mickey doesn’t moan his name much, just a long litany of _fuck fuck fuck_ , until it’s interrupted by— “Look at me.”

Ian looks up and Mickey _groans_.

“You were made for sucking cock,” he says, thumb brushing against Ian’s lips. “Cocksucker.”

Ian glares and Mickey grins, open, and lifts his wifebeater to mop his brow.

Later, Ian snakes a hand up the hem of Mickey’s shirt, presses his palm right over the lotus on his sternum. “I didn’t know you’d covered it up,” he whispers into his hair.

Mickey freezes and then relaxes, shrugs instead. “Didn’t want to look at it every fucking day,” he whispers back as his hand slips up to join Ian’s. Under the pressure, Ian can feel the jagged edges of a G. “A friend in Mexico fixed it up.”

“What does it mean?” Ian asks softly.

“None of your fucking business,” Mickey says automatically and snatches his hand away. Then, he exhales, reaches back to grip Ian’s thigh. “The tattoo artist picked it out. To me, it means rebirth.”

+

_The lotus flower blooms most beautifully from the deepest and thickest mud_ , Ian reads, later, and presses his forehead against the table until the heartburn vanishes.

+

Ian makes parole.

He says goodbye to Mickey in their cell, hands clasping his neck, kissing him again and again until Mickey softens under the touch.

“I love you,” Ian says again, just to say it, just to hear Mickey say it back. “I love you so bad.”

Mickey smiles, presses his hand flat against Ian’s spine. “I love you too.”

“I’ll see you every weekend,” he promises, and Mickey looks away.

“Okay,” he responds softly.

Ian frowns and kisses him again. “I will, Mick.”

Some ugly part of him wants Mickey to bring up the _lie if you have to_ , the break-up before that, their goodbye on the fucking border. All the times Ian’s let him down and broken a promise.

Instead, Mickey lets go.

“I’ll see you soon,” Mickey says, and when Ian turns back to look, he’s watching him leave.

+

Ian misses him as soon as he leaves.

He finds an apartment, a little one bedroom shithole in the middle of Chicago, and starts working as an EMT again. He takes his meds, visits home, and tries really hard not to wish he was still in prison.

He changes his shirt four times on the first visitation Sunday. Eventually, he chooses an old Henley Mickey used to wear in the winter, and half-jogs the whole way from the station to the prison, only to find out Mickey’s in the workshop.

For a moment, he just gapes at the guard – Rick, who used to watch the caf – until he takes pity on Ian and leaves to get him.

Mickey’s hands are shaking when he picks up the phone. “Gallagher.”

Ian smiles. It’s hard, being here. He feels like reverting too. “Where the fuck were you?” he teases, trying to sound light, and Mickey looks down at his hands, covered in grease, and then to Ian’s resting just short of his on the table.

He realises with a jolt that Mickey didn’t think he’d come.

“Mick,” he says softly. He taps his fingers on the glass. “Mickey.”

“Fucking _what_?” Mickey scowls, but his fingers stretch closer.

“Stop waiting for me to leave,” he replies quickly.

Mickey thumbs at his lips, a gesture Ian recognises, loves. “Quit being such a queer,” he says, but Ian knows him, _knows him_ , sees how he relaxes his grip on the phone.

Ian furrows his eyebrows. “ _Queer?_ ” he asks. Mickey’s fingertips press against his. “Not going to call me a faggot?”

“Hey,” he teases, teeth bared. “I’m evolved now.”

+

He picks Mickey up from prison on the first sunny day of the winter.

On the El on the way to their apartment, Mickey sits next to him and slowly, slowly stretches his hand out until his pinkie overlaps with Ian’s. He looks out the window to hide his smile but he knows Mickey sees.

There’s no reason to be fucking _nervous_ , but he’s mumbling and shy showing Mickey their street, _their_ apartment, as he gives Mickey the key. He wishes he’d fucking _asked_ , but he knew he didn’t want to go back to the Southside, or back to living separate, or with one of their fucking wives, or the entire Gallagher family.

“Ian,” Mickey interrupts, while he rambles about the laundromat downstairs. “Are you a fucking Property Brother?”

Ian looks up. Mickey’s making quick work of his belt, kicking off his boots as he walks backwards into their bedroom. Ian trips over his own feet following.

“Or are you gonna get on me?” Mickey teases, and lets Ian press him onto his back and kiss him slow and filthy. When he’s comfortable, Mickey’s _loud_ – moans into his mouth and talks back and doesn’t mind rattling the headboard.

And now, Mickey’s sighing into the kiss, hitches his breath when Ian presses his tongue in and grinds down. Ian shifts reluctantly to grab the lube and pats at Mickey for him to turn over, like they normally do, but—

Mickey shakes his head and wraps his legs high on Ian’s waist, his arms around his neck. “Like this,” he says softly, “please.”

Ian would give Mickey anything he wanted.

He pauses. “Uh,” he starts, and Mickey gives him this impatient look. “You wanna use a condom? I’m clean, I didn’t want to be with anyone else.”

Mickey stares at him. A pink flush trails down his chest. “I’m clean. I wanna feel you,” he replies, and Ian has to bite into his thigh while he preps him to stop from coming at the sight of Mickey thrusting down onto his fingers.

Mickey’s tight so Ian takes his time, kissing his neck and jaw and the corner of his lips while he slowly presses in. Mickey’s limbs are curled right around him, like he can’t let go.

“Jesus Christ I missed you,” Mickey whispers into the crook of his neck.

Ian’s not sure if he was meant to hear but he starts sliding in harder, hands under his thighs to push him up. “Ian’s fine,” he jokes, and Mickey laughs into his neck. “I missed you so much.”

+

Later, Mickey’s in their bathroom brushing his teeth – and he always takes at least three minutes, _and flosses_ , even when he only showered weekly – when he says, all faux-casual, “hey, you still taking your meds at night?”

Ian opens his eyes. “Yeah,” he replies, as smoothly as he can about the cause of the end of their relationship. Where the door hinges, he can see Mickey gently lift up the bottles to examine the labels. “But with dinner, now. It helps with the nausea.”

Mickey spits and Ian watches him brush toothpaste off his bottom lip. “Still taking Clozaril?”

He walks into the bathroom and picks up his toothbrush, caging Mickey in against the sink. Mickey looks at him in the mirror reflexion. “Uh, yeah,” he replies. “I see my doctor every month but she thinks our current dose is the one.”

And he sees that old familiar look in Mickey’s eyes, the one he used to think was pity and knows, now, is concern. He doesn’t know how to say that he feels as close to normal as he can, that he hasn’t missed a pill in years, how sorry he is for the fights and that long low of the first winter.

“You don’t need to worry anymore,” he says, instead. “I’ve got it.”

Mickey looks at him for a moment longer and turns to press his lips to the tip of his shoulder, stays there for the rest of his routine.

+

While Mickey was still locked up, Ian would have these fantasies about the most obscenely domestic shit – being home for dinner, going grocery shopping together, talking about their days over a beer, all the trash Mickey would laugh at him for, that Ian doesn’t even think he _wants_.

Except.

It’s been the day from hell, with six OD’s and a major crash, and Ian has spent the past two hours working on a boy with Carl’s big eyes and a massive open wound on his thigh.

He stumbles inside the front door, trousers soaked in blood and feeling every inch of his twenty-four years.

Mickey glances up from his book, looks unimpressed. “You look like shit,” he calls out as Ian walks straight for the bathroom.

Ian’s only just gotten under the spray when the door creaks back open. He watches Mickey undress through the warbled glass, as he sets a pair of glasses carefully on the sink and looks back at him, a little soft in the downlight.

The shower’s too small for the both of them but Mickey comes in anyway. He wraps his arms around Ian, presses his face into the nape of his neck. “You okay?” he asks and kisses his hairline.

Ian feels like he’s going to cry. He nods, anyway. “I didn’t know you wear glasses,” he replies, instead.

Mickey hums. “Only got them last month. I get headaches reading without them.”

The hands on his chest start stroking up and down. The firm pressure and the callouses on Mickey’s hands and the steady press behind him are just right, just enough to calm him down.

Ian settles.

The lips against his neck slide to the meat of his shoulder, the gross tattoo there. “Take your time,” Mickey says softly. His fingers are all pruned. “I’ll make dinner.”

When he comes out, Mickey’s at the stove. He’s in this massive knit jumper and Ian’s sweats rolled up at the ankles, and Ian loves him.

“I love you,” he says, one arm wrapped around Mickey’s waist. Then— “what the fuck is this?”

Mickey snorts. “Love you too, dumbass,” he teases. “And it’s broccoli.”

Ian frowns at the pan. “I didn’t know you did this.”

“Cooked?”

Ian grins at him. “Ate vegetables.”

The spatula is hot when it hits him in the chest. “Fuck off,” Mickey bites back, but he’s smiling, looks comfortable, here. Brand New is on in the background, the same album Mickey had in his stereo all of high school. “Clear your shit off the table.”

Ian does as he’s told and sits to watch Mickey silently. His head bobs to the music and he sings _well jesus christ I’m alone again_ under his breath while he serves up the rice bowl.

He watches Ian intently as he eats. There’s this weird silence, between them, but Ian feels comfortable for the first time since standing in their cell, hearing Mickey say _love you too_.

Ian swallows thickly and waves his fork at the stereo. “You listen to the most depressing shit,” he teases. It’s worth it for the smile, the way Mickey blushes. “Would it kill you to mix it up? A little Katy Perry won’t kill you.”

“It might,” Mickey shoots back, mouthful of food. Then, just to shock him, he sings offkey and too loud— _you make me feel like I’m living a teenage dream_.

Ian shoves broccoli into his mouth to stop from smiling.

+

Ian kisses him on the cheek as they wash up. “Thanks for dinner,” he whispers, and Mickey grins, gets soap suds all over Ian as they rut together against the sink.

+

_You’re not his fucking keeper,_ Ian repeats to himself, firmly, the fifth day in a row he comes home to an empty house. It’s not—

It’s not like he’s worried Mickey’s cruising, or in trouble; it’s about the possibility of Mickey back home, back in the Southside, or dealing again, or doing dirt work for his family, or—

The front lock clunks as it opens so Ian has plenty of time to pretend to lounge on the couch with his torn-at beer bottle. An action movie is on but he hasn’t seen a minute of it, too busy looking at his phone and the unanswered _do you want me to pick up dinner?_

Mickey’s juggling two pizza boxes and a six pack, which he dumps on the coffee table to kiss Ian. He’s in a white button up and his glasses and smells of air conditioning.

Ian exhales into the kiss and reaches up to fiddle with his collar. He lets Mickey set the pace, slow and gentle, just a hint of tongue across his bottom lip.

When he pulls away, Mickey ducks back to kiss him one last time. “Sorry I didn’t reply,” he says softly. “I didn’t have my phone most of the day, and I wanted deep dish anyway.”

Ian doesn’t ask. Now, he knows Mickey will talk when he wants, when he’s comfortable; that pushing him makes him quiet and sulky. They settle in, Mickey pressed right against his side, grumbling every time Ian shifts for another slice.

A few scenes later, Mickey rubs at his nose. “I – uh, I got a job at the juvie,” he starts. “I just finished a trial run, and they want me back. It’s got benefits and annual leave and all that.”

“Mickey,” Ian says, feels warm and fucking _proud_. “What’re you doing there?”

“I’m teaching math,” Mickey answers and snorts at the look Ian gives him. “I know – _stop_ looking at me like that. It’s fucking Essentials. Like taxes and interest and shit to a group of teenagers.”

Ian picks the biggest slice. Mickey’s always been the one to figure out a bill, or budget, and he remembers walking in on him teaching Carl with this patient voice he hasn’t heard since. “Don’t you need a GED for that?”

Mickey looks at him strangely. “I have my GED,” he explains slowly, like Ian’s the idiot.

Ian splutters. “Since _when!?”_

“Since my last time in the joint,” Mickey says, obviously more interested in the movie and the stringy cheese. With his beer, he gestures to the group of papers by the tv, and Ian can make out _certificate of education_ on top. “My PO found out about me teaching the guys in shop and – I like it.”

Mickey’s fucking _blushing_. 

“Does this mean they call you _Mr. Milkovich?_ ” he teases. “Wait – can _I—”_

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Mickey says evenly, and settles into the crook of his arm.

+

Sometime into February, Ian walks in to find Mickey on the couch, all dressed, wearing this battered denim jacket and tight jeans.

Ian’s in his lap before he can even think of it.

“Hey,” Mickey mumbles between kisses, hands tight on Ian’s waist, under his shirt. “Get dressed, we’re going out.”

Ian spends too long in the shower, on his hair, picking out an outfit. He doesn’t know why he feels so fucking _nervous_ , like he’s fifteen again and waiting for Mickey to walk into work.

Mickey gives him this slow, considerate look which makes it worth it.

Mickey still doesn’t like holding hands in public, but he walks close enough that they brush together; drags a hand across the small of his back at a traffic light. They talk about their days, about Lip and his baby and the Red Sox until Mickey guides him down an alley to a hole-in-the-wall pasta joint.

It’s dim lit inside, _intimate_. Ian waits for the waiter to leave before leaning right across the table. “Is it Valentine’s day?” he asks, looking deliberately at the roses up on the bar.

“That was two weeks ago, man,” Mickey replies, studying the menu. “And we might be together but we’re never doing that shit.”

“Fair,” Ian says easily. He hates Valentine’s Day anyway.

And then, because he can’t help himself— “Is this a date?”

Mickey scowls, but Ian knows his face well enough to see the flush high on his cheeks, the way his tongue traces his bottom lip. “I’ll fucking leave,” he says. It’s an empty threat. “I’m not holding your fucking hand. We’re not splitting dessert.”

Ian feels fucking giddy with it. “Not even the tiramisu?”

Mickey kicks him hard in the shin and keeps his leg there, pressed between Ian’s knees.

+

On the way out, Ian catches Mickey by the wrist and presses him up against the wall. He kisses him, the way he’s been thinking of all night, all day, his whole fucking life.

Mickey groans and fists his hands in Ian’s collar. Mickey kisses like he’s drowning in it; he sags up against Ian, clings to him in a way that makes him feel needed.

Ian could kiss him all day.

Eventually, Mickey’s hands trial down his chest to rest on his belt. His thumbs brush back and forth against Ian’s zipper as he grinds up against him. “Ian,” he mumbles, “quit teasing.”

“Let me take you home,” he whispers, instead, and slides his hand into Mickey’s back pocket. “C’mon Mick, let me take you home and fuck you the way you need it.”

Mickey moans all sweet into his mouth and spends the whole cab ride home whispering in his ear.

+

If there’s a heaven, at the alter is a tape on loop of Mickey riding him, strong thighs flexing while he smirks down at Ian, taking what he needs and moaning—

“ _Thought you were gonna fucking give it to me, tough guy—”_

+

They’re at the pharmacy late one night, waiting for his script, and Mickey is picking out increasingly scary lubes, when—

“Ian?”

It’s his old maths teacher, from the Southside, and she’s looking at Mickey like she remembers him from somewhere. Ian takes charge, starts running his mouth about work and old friends until he runs out.

“And who’s this?” she asks politely.

Ian turns. Part of him expects Mickey to be on the other side of the room, running back to their apartment, fucking – on a plane to Mexico, but he’s right next to his right side, looking at Ian expectantly.

“This is my partner,” Ian says, voice a little raw. “Mickey.”

Mickey grins at him.

+

There’s this stray cat.

It’s clearly the runt of the litter, still growing into its clownish feet, and so black Ian can only see it skulking around if the moon is out. It’s a little cagey and this side of too skinny and lurks around the door like it’s looking for a chance in.

Mickey loves the cat.

Ian doesn’t mention it, because he knows the quickest way to a black eye is suggesting Mickey Milkovich gives a shit, but he spots Mickey leaving tuna out on the front porch, sees him check the yard for it every morning when they leave for work.

Ian gets roped in – he doesn’t even _like_ cats – at Mickey’s insistence.

“It likes you better,” Mickey complains, which it does, and passes over a bottle of lukewarm water and some fancy cat food.

Ian also doesn’t mention the similarities. He trusts Mickey to reach the same conclusion himself.

+

Ian’s at Lip’s new house playing xbox when he notices his _eighteen_ missed calls from Mickey.

His heart drops right out his chest.

“ _Mick_ ,” he groans, after picking up the next call. “Are you—”

“I’m sorry,” Mickey says quickly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to worry you—”

Mickey sounds _hysterical_ , the way Ian’s only heard him once before. “Mickey—”

“It’s the cat,” he interrupts, “she – she was bleeding – she had kittens and I panicked, and you, you said you know a vet and I need you, I need you—”

When he gets there, Mickey is bent over, nearly in half in the waiting room. Ian approaches him slowly, settles a hand in the nape of his neck.

“Mick,” he says softly, and Mickey just groans in response. There’s something uneven in his breathing, and he’s warm, and won’t look up, and— “Are you – are you going to—?”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Mickey snipes back, but twists to press his face into Ian’s chest, and Ian—

Ian wants to cry too, because Mickey is upset over a _stray_ , and is baring down into him like he knows Ian will hold him up, and he will, he _will_.

And he’d forgotten the warmth of this – the steady pressure of being _enough_ , of Mickey wanting him and needing him and trusting him to be there, and not looking away and not pushing back and not keeping that barrier between them and _them_ – the way they were for half a day before Ian couldn’t get out of bed.

He wants to say something, but Mickey is already split open, raw and vulnerable in the worst way. So he tilts his head to press a kiss into his hair and rubs his thumb over Mickey’s ribs.

+

Mickey fucking _beams_ when a soft, apologetic Salem—

“Wait, Salem?” Ian asks incredulously. “Like from _Sabrina the Teenage Witch_?”

“Quiet,” Mickey says lowly, stroking her fur while she gets microchipped. “She’s scared.”

— is placed into his arms. He keeps her there while he signs the paperwork, flushing as he puts _Gallagher-Milkovich_ in as her surname and discusses options for desexing and indoor adaption. Ian feels like he’s in a fucking alternate universe.

“ _Pet insurance?_ ” he asks, under his breath. “You didn’t get health insurance until three weeks ago!”

“She deserves it,” Mickey says patiently, squinting over Salem’s head to read the fine print.

Ian drives by Walmart on the way home and buys the kibble the vet recommended, a scratching post, and hunting toys from an incredibly specific list Mickey had given him. When he gets home, Mickey’s watching her sleep on his favourite throw pillow by the radiator.

“Not a fucking word, Gallagher,” he says shortly and walks into the kitchen to cook dinner.

+

Eventually, Ian starts to want more.

He’s sitting on the kitchen bench, which Mickey _hates_ , idly stirring their pasta sauce. Mickey’s bitching about some brat sixteen year old in his class, gesticulating wildly with his butchers knife and spins around to grin when Ian laughs at his joke, and—

_And—_

Ian wants to marry him.

He looks away and spends the rest of the night hyperventilating, trying his hardest to keep it in.

Firmly, he thinks of all the reasons not to voice it – that guarded look in Mickey’s eyes, the old, familiar burn of rejection, _it’s just a piece of paper_ , Svetlana, _Svetlana—_

“Hey,” he says casually, while they’re smoking behind their favourite Chinese restaurant. Mickey’s in that Henley, the same one Ian used to wear, and is holding his hand like he has all night, under the table. “Are you still married?”

Part of him hopes Mickey will see it for what it is, but he doesn’t. Instead, he scoffs. “She remarried in Ohio three years ago,” he replies, giving his hand a squeeze, since he knows it’s still a sore point. “Brian. Bill. Ben? Fuck, one of those. He’s a nurse. Good guy.”

Not Svetlana, then.

He can’t stop thinking about it.

At five a.m., when he knows Mickey is the most asleep, he starts to say it out loud.

“I wanna marry you,” he says softly into the space between his shoulderblades. Mickey doesn’t stir. “Thick and thin, good times and bad, sickness and health, all of that shit. That’s what it means.”

Maybe Ian has stopped wanting to change their past, but he wants that proposal, again. He wants to know that Mickey trusts him with himself, with them.

He wants it more than anything.

+

On a Sunday, while Mickey is in the fishmongers arguing over prices – _what –_ Ian sneaks across the mall to the jewellers. He sees this clean silver band and he’s sure.

He hides it deep in his meds cabinet, where Mickey never looks, even though Ian thinks he must want to. When he comes out of the bathroom, Mickey is in their armchair, their cat in his arms, and he tilts his face up to kiss Ian as he walks past.

Ian’s surer than he’s been about anything.

+

“Jesus fucking Christ, Mick,” he groans, fucking two fingers into Mickey, watching the way he writhes under him. They don’t usually do foreplay this way but lately, he’s been thinking he could make Mickey come just like this, just with his fingers and the idea has him dizzy with it. “Look at you fucking taking it. No one else can give it to you like this.”

Mickey pauses. His hips rock down onto their good sheets like it’s fucking instinct. “Only you, Ian,” he says softly and he gasps so prettily when Ian adds another finger and kisses his perineum.

“Yeah,” he moans, like he’s in a fucking porno, curls his fingers just so. Mickey’s trembling, clenching around Ian’s fingers like he wants more.

And then, because he’s gotten pretty far with pushing his luck, he scrapes his teeth across the rim and asks– “who do you belong to?”

Mickey reaches back to push him away. “Fuck off,” he scowls, face buried in the pillow.

Ian catches his hands behind his back. He stills his fingers and leans back enough to watch Mickey grind onto them. “Tell me you belong to me.”

“I’m not your twink,” he bites back, “this isn’t Sean Cody—”

“Mick—”

“ _Ian_ ,” he interrupts, a soft warning.

Ian lets go of his hands like he’s been burnt.

Mickey pulls this move, taking advantage, so he’s facing Ian, flushed and warm and a little wary. Mickey kisses him slowly, like he knows they have all night. “C’mon,” he whispers between kisses, Ian’s cock sliding against his rim, “fuck me, give me what I want—”

Ian slides in. He has to pause not to come like a fucking teenager.

Mickey smirks at Ian and wraps his arms tight around him like he’s won something _._

+

After, in the afterglow, Mickey looks up from his position on Ian’s chest. “Gallagher,” he says softly.

It’s so dark he can only just see the shape of his lips, the slope of his nose. “What, Mick?” he replies. He knows Mickey can feel his heartbeat.

Mickey presses his lips against his jaw. “You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”

Part of him worries Mickey forces himself through _this_ – the relationship legwork, the fucking heart to hearts and date nights – for his benefit, but the one time he’d voiced it, Mickey had given him a withering look and punched him harder than necessary in the arm.

He groans, feels so fucking seen. “Mickey—”

“Remember I ain’t ever left you,” he interrupts, swallows thickly. “You’re it for me, man. I don’t know what more you want.”

It’s so dark, but Ian can tell Mickey’s not looking at him. “Shit, Mick,” he groans. “I’m—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Mickey interrupts, again, and Ian pushes him onto his back, lies over him.

“Don’t what?” he teases, even while his heart breaks. Mickey’s right. Mickey’s always fucking right. He’s asking for something Mickey’s already given him. He’s acting like a fucking lunatic.

He leans down and kisses Mickey’s cheek, his jaw, the curve of his ear. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, kisses his hairline, his temple. “I love you so much. I’m just in an odd mood. I’m so scared you’re going to realise you can do better. I’m scared you’re gonna leave.”

_I wanna marry you_ , he doesn’t say, even when he means it.

Mickey stretches to turn on the lamp. In the light, Ian can see Mickey’s book on the nightstand, his glasses folded on top. How the shirt he’d thrown off was Ian’s.

He’s so stupid.

Ian takes a deep breath. “I was worried you didn’t trust me,” he confesses. “When we were in prison you didn’t want to spend as much time together, you didn’t want to cuddle, you told me to _fuck other people—_ ”

“I was trying to be cool!” Mickey groans, pressing at his temples like Ian’s a fucking headache. “I was giving you space! I was too invested and I didn’t want to freak you out! And that was _six fucking months ago—_ ”

Ian kisses him.

Mickey shoves him off. “You’re such a dipshit,” he scowls as he straddles his chest. “ _Didn’t want to cuddle_. Are you still fifteen and a virgin?”

He doesn’t have anything to say.

Mickey smirks at him like he knows. He leans over to kiss Ian, three times quick. “I trust you,” he says, and grinds down slow against his abdomen. “Get on me.”

+

“Fuck,” Mickey laughs, at four a.m. on a Tuesday while they mess around on their phones. “Kara and Jude are getting married. They want me down for the engagement party on the 30th.”

Ian sits up. He’s heard of Mickey’s Mexico friends, watched how Mickey grins and laughs when they call. “Are you going to go?”

Mickey bites his lip. “Nah,” he answers quietly. “It’ll be too difficult. I’ll try harder for their wedding.”

It’s dark. Mickey doesn’t see his smile.

+

Ian steals Mickey’s phone and Kara’s number while Mickey’s in the shower before work. He texts her, _it’s Ian Gallagher, we’re coming. It’s a surprise_.

She replies with the blandest smile emoji and _we’re excited to meet you_ , which, _what_ , but Ian books the flights and a catsitter, calls Mickey’s PO and cashes a favour at work and finds their dusty passports in the bottom drawer.

+

He tells Mickey while they’re out grocery shopping. There’s no reason for him to be fucking _nervous_ , except he doesn’t know if Mickey wants to go back, if he wanted to come back, if he wants Ian to come—

“Drop the fucking potatoes, Gallagher,” Mickey says gruffly and grabs him by the wrist, dragging him to the exit.

Ian looks alarmed at their hands, their abandoned trolley, and Mickey starts actively shoving him outside, into the alley behind the store. He presses Ian firm against the wall and looks at him, softens around the edges.

“Thank you,” he says, but doesn’t kiss him.

Ian swallows. “Are we going to go back inside?”

“No,” he replies, smile sharp, and sinks to his knees. “I’m going to blow you until you come your fucking brains out. And then when we get home, you’re going to fuck me through the mattress. Sound better than the sourdough in the bakery section?”

Ian nods quickly and hits his head firm against the cement when Mickey swallows him down.

+

On their red-eye, Mickey waits until the lights out and shoves up their arm rest to press close and split headphones while they watch a slasher film. He falls asleep on Ian’s shoulder and doesn’t move when the flight attendant wakes them for landing.

+

The air tastes like salt outside the airport and Ian can already feel his pale, paper-thin skin burning at the morning sun. He shades his eyes and turns to whinge to Mickey, but Mickey’s gone, in the middle of a credits-scene romantic reunion with a tanned blonde covered in tattoos and a tall (dark, handsome) guy with a man-bun. They’re both kissing him all over and Mickey – _Milkovich –_ is laughing, taking it.

For a moment, he watches and firmly reminds himself that Mickey’s done this for him a million times over, and will, again, in a heartbeat; will do anything Ian asks.

He calms down.

Mickey breaks free and reaches out for him. No one else notices, but Ian sees how he deflates, calms without other hands on him.

“You must be Gallagher,” the girl says, but mangled – and then Ian realises, _Galagher_ , the old tattoo, and sees Mickey’s lotus on her thigh. “I’m Kara.”

“Jude,” Jude adds cheekily, and Mickey rolls his eyes, shoves them both out the way to drag Ian into the van.

+

Halfway through the drive – in the middle of the convoluted story of how they all met – Jude twists to look at the two of them, Mickey tucked under his arm dozing.

“This explains all the redheads,” he says thoughtfully.

Mickey opens his eyes. “Shut the fuck up,” he says darkly, and tilts his head up to kiss Ian’s jaw.

Ian laughs, even when that’s the last thing he feels like, and Jude gives him this apologetic look and continues the story.

+

They meet up with the party at a dive bar, one with a tacky disco ball overhead and about four years of grime on the walls, and everyone fucking _roars_ when Mickey comes in. He’s tugged away from Ian like a little tide and handed about sixteen different drinks, including one that’s literally on fire.

He twists to look at Ian but intercepted by a girl who reminds him distressingly of Vee. “You must be Gallagher,” she says warmly, and hands him a beer.

“Ian,” he corrects, watching Mickey bat away at everyone with that fond look on his face.

“Ian,” she repeats easily, and drags him all the way across the bar away from Mickey.

+

Mickey’s _dancing_.

He’s surrounded, two girls sandwiching him and looking up like he hung the fucking moon, all three of them and everyone around him singing along to fucking _Madonna._

Ian’s buzzed from the mixture of two beers and his meds, and he’s talking to the bartender, listening to stories about a Mickey he’ll never know. Mickey keeps looking over, seeking him out even in a room of everyone who wants to talk to him.

Just not as much as Ian wants to.

He’s _trying_ , trying to be good and present and not needy, even as Mickey is dragged away by a broad-chested guy who presses his front up against Mickey’s back and bends down to talk shit into his ear.

Ian looks away.

The bartender – Julia – smiles sympathetically. “I’ll tell you about his admirer,” she says, and pours him a shot. “They’re crazy about him. Wrote him letters in prison and everything.”

A _u-up_ hand curls around his back like it’s been summoned. “You talking shit?” he asks, leaning in to kiss Ian’s shoulder. He’s still dancing, swaying side to side, three longnecks in four fingers.

“Talking about your admirer,” Andrea replies.

Mickey snorts. “So talking shit,” he corrects, and steps in between Ian’s legs.

Ian thinks helplessly of that first kiss in the club, how gentle Mickey was with him, and licks his lips. “They in here?” he asks, presses forward to see if Mickey will back off.

He doesn’t. Instead, he grins at him. “You jealous Gallagher?” he asks gleefully, and takes a sip of all three at once. This Mickey – loose, confident, _happy_ – is so fucking hot to Ian. He kisses Ian once, twice, three times on the corner of his lips. “Don’t burst your nut, she’s talking about Kara’s housewife _mom_. She’d have more luck if she was a tree.”

Ian kisses him and Mickey presses his tongue against his without hesitation. He tastes of beer and chilli, salt from the air. His shirt sticks to his back when Ian tries to get a hand on the small of his back, desperate with it—

Fake nails tangle with his fingers and shove them away. Ian pulls back and looks at Kara over Mickey’s shoulder.

She bares her teeth in something of a smile. “Not yet, loverboy,” she teases, but there’s not much playful about it.

Mickey shoots her a bored look. “Fuck off,” he says without heat, and leans back in to suck a mark on Ian’s neck.

+

Jude’s two brothers take pity on him shortly after he’s lost Mickey to Kara and the next set. They’re both from the Airforce and Ian tells them about West Point, and they commiserate about all the same things.

Mickey’s back in the thick of it, sweating and dancing and grinning at the disco lights like they’ve made his day. They’re all singing along to Mariah Carey, which Ian is not drunk or gay enough for, and Mickey’s eyes find him across the room to sing _we belong together, baby_.

+

He finds Mickey outside, flat on his back on the sand, cigarette held up like the cherry is one of the stars.

Ian lies down next to him. The music inside has turned slow, shit about love and the future and he wants to dance with Mickey but doesn’t know how to ask.

It’s quiet, for a moment, and then Mickey says— “My mom never wanted to move to Chicago.”

Ian freezes, knows this is one of those _sharing_ moments that Mickey hates so much. He makes a little hum of acknowledgement.

“She always imagined moving somewhere warm after the Ukraine,” he continues, soft, “but then she met my dad, and. Well.”

“Well.” Ian echoes, and he can see the edge of Mickey’s smile, the way his foot is tapping along to the song. He waits a moment, and says what’s been on his mind all day – “Do you want to move back here?”

Ian doesn’t say _with me this time_. This place has him raw, thinking of a different past.

Mickey rolls over, sand pressed into the crook of his neck, the curve of his ear. Ian loves him so much it sometimes hurts, like it does right here. “Maybe later,” he whispers, and puts his sandy head on Ian’s chest.

For a while, they listen to the waves. Ian feels himself settle back into his bones, let go of all the worries he has. “I don’t think your friends like me very much,” he says quietly.

Mickey tilts his head up. “Did someone say something?” he asks, and Ian looks away.

“Nah,” he replies, studiously looking at the sky. “Just a vibe I get.”

On his chest, Mickey’s hand unfurls to press firm over his ribs. Ian swallows. “I don’t blame them,” he adds. “Sometimes I don’t like myself much either.”

Mickey groans and takes another drag of his cigarette. “God,” he teases, but kindly, “I forgot how fucking maudlin you get when you drink.”

“ _Maudlin?”_

“Yeah,” he snipes back, and rolls off him. Ian follows his momentum to face him again. “Fucking ten points in Scrabble.”

Ian steals his cigarette. “You’ve played Scrabble?”

“And fuck them anyway,” Mickey continues, as if he’s not an _alien_ wearing Mick’s face. He tugs at his shirt until Ian straddles him. “I’m with you. I don’t give a shit about anyone else.”

Ian feels warm all over. “That’s not true, anymore,” he corrects and dips down to kiss his cheek. “I’m glad it isn’t.”

Inside, someone’s calling Mickey’s name, but he doesn’t even blink. “Then I give the most shits about you,” he says instead, grinning, stroking at Ian’s neck like he’s something skittish. “Wanna leave?”

“ _No_ ,” he says firmly, even with Mickey’s teeth grazing over his collarbone. “Fiona and Lip hazed you forever. I can deal.”

Mickey smiles against his skin. “Good. Can’t have my friends thinking you’re a pussy.”

+

Mickey spends the rest of the night plastered to his side, sitting half in his lap, being the type of clingy drunk Ian didn’t think he could ever be. When someone comes over to talk, Mickey’ll take his hand and play absently with his fingers in the way he only usually does in bed.

Ian wishes he didn’t love it, but he does, even when he knows it isn’t permanent.

Chicago doesn’t let Mickey be vulnerable.

Ian’s halfway to the bathroom before he realises Mickey is behind him.

“I can take a piss without having a breakdown,” Ian groans, but Mickey follows him anyway and locks the door behind them.

He drops to his knees.

“Don’t play dumb, shithead,” Mickey laughs, and leans in to mouth at his cock through the denim.

+

Later, hours later, when it’s really closer to dawn than night, Mickey drags him into the middle of the bar to dance. He wraps his calloused hands around Ian’s neck, flashes his middle finger at his friends while they tease them, and just looks at Ian, all warm and soft; that look Ian would do anything for.

+

Ian wakes up in a patch of afternoon sun. Mickey’s still snoring, head tucked right between Ian’s shoulderblades with his hands wrapped around Ian’s stomach, and Ian wants this idyllic life so bad it hurts.

And then he notices Kara, perched at the end of the bed.

He tenses up, makes himself big enough to hide Mickey from view.

She scoffs. “I’ve seen him in a lot worse states,” she laughs, with this hard edge, with the implied _because of you_. “We’re gonna surf. Wanted to see if Mick wanted to come.”

Part of him bristles, only he gets caught on the idea of Mickey _surfing_. “I’ll wake him in a bit.”

He expects her to leave, but instead she tilts her head, looks at him. “Jude spent days trying to convince him not to go back,” she says. “We all did. Mickey was happy here, and he pissed off a lot of friends by snitching. But he wouldn’t listen, said he had to go to you like – like he was going to find his great fucking perhaps with you.”

Ian doesn’t get the reference; doesn’t get why Mickey came back, either.

She leans forward, blocks out the sun, and puts a hand firm on his thigh. “Jude won’t say this,” she says quietly. “But I don’t mind being the bad guy. If you fuck him over again, I’ll fucking kill you. We’ll do it together. Don’t think we haven’t done it before.”

He doesn’t say anything, just thinks _I won’t, I promise I won’t_ as loud as he can while she stares at him. Mostly, he’s just happy Mickey finally has someone who has his back.

Kara smiles and rapid-quick punches him in the dick before he can react.

+

Mickey looks at home at the ocean’s edge.

He laughs, the kind of disbelieving sound Ian’s only ever heard in their home, and glances to share it with Ian. “You coming?” he asks, tearing off his shirt.

Ian wants to so bad, except. “I can’t swim,” he admits, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. “So—”

“Bullshit,” Mickey interrupts, firm grip around his wrist, “fifth grade. Government mandated crap. Everyone knows how.”

Ian scowls and skids to a stop. Mickey shoves at him, he pushes back. “That’s the year we were in foster care. And I’ve never been to the ocean.”

“It’s easy,” Mickey says casually, deliberately knocking into his side, his pointy elbows between his ribs. “Hold your breath. Dodge the waves. That’s all there is. Let’s go.”

“Mick,” he whines, jabbing back a little. “I don’t want to mess up your day.”

“Don’t be such a pussy,” Mickey groans, shoving him closer to the water. “I’ve got you. Get in the fucking—”

“I’m going to _literally_ drown,” Ian replies, trying to plant his feet but Mickey’s a dirty fight, sucker punches him in the stomach. “You’re going to kill me!”

Mickey wrestles him down until he’s pinned against the sand, foamy waves lapping around them while he pushes down Ian’s hands. “Yes,” he says sarcastically while they grapple. “My master plan, go back to jail _for you_ , become a fucking gay wet dream _for you_ , bring you to Mexico only to _fucking kill you—”_

“This is the gayest shit I’ve ever seen,” some guy says from the ocean. “Like gay porn gay. Literally Mardi Gras levels of faggot.”

“Shut the fuck up, Ant,” Mickey yells, panting and sandy and wet above Ian but smirking. Then, softer— “Feel familiar _Ian Gallagher_?”

Ian squirms away and Mickey tightens his grip on his hands, brings them up to kiss over his knuckles. “Just go with your friends – I’m trying to be considerate – _Mick_ —”

“ _Ian_ ,” he mimics softly and keeps him close. They look at each other for a long moment. Ian could look at him all day. “I want to be where you are.”

And Ian fucking _melts_ , knows Mickey knows it from the shiteating grin he gets in response.

+

They’re in waist deep water and Mickey’s big on positive reinforcement, legs wrapped high on Ian’s waist to grind against his cock, kissing him filthy, when a giant wave knocks them both off their feet.

Ian tumbles rough on the bottom of the ocean, scrapes a whole side of his ass, and surfaces gasping and reaching out for Mickey.

And the asshole’s laughing at him, almost sobbing with it, and recounts the story to everyone they see for the rest of the day with increasing glee, and Ian loves him, he _loves_ him.

+

“I love you,” he says softly, in the cold glow of the kitchen at three am when he’s got him alone, and Mickey smiles, just for him.

“I love you too,” he replies, and kisses him gently.

+

They go home.

Chicago feels cold and grey, it smells like shit and it takes an hour and a half to drive home in the traffic.

Mickey’s more guarded, here. He sees it now, like he’s gotten a weekend of a carefree, alternate universe, and can’t help but want it back, want him to kiss Ian in the broad daylight like he did on the beach.

But they get to their apartment, fiddle with the stiff lock, and Mickey swoops Salem up into his arms with the biggest smile on his face. They cook burgers together to a pop playlist that Ian knows, now, that Mickey likes.

And afterwards, Mickey straddles him as he sits on their massive bed so they’re face to face, so he can kiss Ian with both arms wrapped around his neck as Ian fingers him. They’re watching each other and Ian can’t look away, _won’t_ ; curls his fingers for the way Mickey shudders in his arms.

He draws tight like a bow and arrow when Ian pushes his cock in.

“Fucking missed you,” Mickey groans, even though they’ve spent every day together for the last year, “missed fucking you, too.”

Ian strokes his hands down Mickey’s back, over every vertebrae, soft over the bruise from their wrestle in the water. He settles his fingers right on his rim, so he can feel where they meet.

Mickey moans right into his mouth and adjusts so he can take him deeper. He deliberately tightens up, so all Ian can feel is heat and pressure and fucking _Mickey Milkovich_.

“Your ass is made for me,” Ian says softly and Mickey inhales quickly, kisses him to cover it up, “you’re so desperate for it, you’d give this to me whenever I wanted it—”

Mickey’s cock jolts against his stomach. “Would you like that?” Ian asks, stuck with the crazy urge to call him _baby, sweetheart,_ a dozen things that’d get him punched, “you can have it, Mick, you can have anything—”

“ _Ian_ ,” he moans, half a plea, and reaches down to stroke himself off, but Ian tsks into his mouth.

“No,” he says firmly, adjusts his hips so he _knows_ he hits his prostate, “you don’t need that, this is what you want, you can come like—”

And he doesn’t even finish, because Mickey _does_ , starts fucking himself onto Ian’s cock and biting at his jaw and coming all over Ian’s stomach. He’s shaking, grinding down even as he settles, and Ian holds onto him tight enough to bruise and comes hard.

+

Mickey’s scrolling through his phone when Ian wakes up spooning him.

For a moment, he just watches, as Mickey flicks through photos from when he lived in Mexico, of the beach and his friends and screenshotted messages.

“I didn’t know you had blonde hair,” Ian says, at a photo of Mickey and Kara in a tattoo studio. “You look so different.”

“That’s the idea of a disguise,” he teases and keeps skimming. There’s an obvious time jump and then there’s just photos of Salem, of Chicago and the time they went to the baseball and hated it.

The most recent photo is of Ian, taken at the beach, lying down with a hand over his eyes to glare up at the camera.

“We don’t have any photos together,” Ian says, after a while.

Mickey snorts. He fiddles, a bit, and then pulls up a photo from a few years ago, the two of them grinning and giving the camera the middle finger. Ian’s never seen it, doesn’t even remember it, but he looks and thinks of how scared out of his mind he used to be, how desperate he was for something forever, how he always wanted _more_.

Ian’s throat feels thick. Part of him is thinking of that ring, in the bathroom, of taking that next step and – fucking – moving _away_ , starting somewhere new together. Except—

He’s in no rush.

Ian’s not going anywhere.

He kisses Mickey’s neck, instead. “Can you turn over real quick?” he asks and Mickey does to face him. Then, shyly— “can we take one now?”

Mickey rolls his eyes but hands his phone over. Ian takes a dozen, tells a bad joke to get Mickey to smile, even though it doesn’t capture how happy Ian is, right now.

Ian drops the phone and kisses him. While Mickey’s soft, unguarded, he whispers, “I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you, Mickey.”

Mickey opens his eyes. “You’re too much, man,” Mickey says, but he’s smiling. “Of course you are.”


End file.
